


blooming stars

by casbean



Series: Askbean Prompts [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Arranged Marriage, Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Frottage, Happy Ending, Historical AU, Light Angst, M/M, Weddings, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 18:18:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19214911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casbean/pseuds/casbean
Summary: They’d never had hope, but they had dreams. Their letters were full of what if’s, of the things they wished they could say, do, if they were ever to see each other again.And maybe now Dean realizes that he did, somehow, have hope.But that’s over now.Dean’s wedding is in a couple of weeks, and then he’ll take over the estate. And he will never, ever see his love again.





	blooming stars

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: royalty AU+soulmates AU
> 
> not quite royalty, but close enough.

_My sweetest love,_

_It is with a broken heart that I write this last missive. The day we’ve been dreading all those years has finally come to pass — I have been promised in marriage to a complete stranger. I know nothing of them, besides that they are an offering to my family, strengthening with this gift the power I shall soon hold as the heir to our estate._

_I know not their gender, nor their age, or even the color of their eyes, nor do I care; they are not you, my love, therefore I spare them very little thought. I only fear they will try to wed me to a young immature thing, and I am revolted at the thought; my brother’s future wife has been deemed his since they were only children, and I dread to find out how old my future spouse will be._

_My hand shakes as I write these words, for I know they shall be the last you will read from me for a terribly long while. I’m afraid that with a spouse by my side every day I won’t have the luxury to hide and write you these letters, nor will it be safe for me to receive our dear pigeon at my window._

_This might be the last time I can ever tell you, my sweetheart, my darling, but it is never going to stop being true — I love you, and only you. I am yours, and yours alone, now and forever. No matter the legal bonds that shall bind me to another, you will remain the only one to have ever touched my soul. I will see your eyes in the morning, when I look up at the sky, I will think of your honeyed voice in the afternoon, as the sun sets, and I will think of nothing but your lips long after the day is done._

_My heart will remain here, on these papers, in the words I picture you reading over and over again, just like I read yours. Not a day will go by that I won’t be thinking of you, thinking of holding you, kissing you, thinking of the life we could have had together. Those few stolen hours we spent with each other all those years ago remain the best memory of my life._

_I must now end this letter, otherwise I might simply cover the paper with all the words I dreamed of one day calling you — darling, sweetheart, sunshine, beloved, angel. Those words shall never escape my lips for another, but here they are, just for you._

_Despite my own sorrow, I pray every night that you find the happiness you deserve, be it without me — I shall not be so heartbroken if I know that you’ve found solace, peace, and joy, be it with another. Please, write me one last time, and tell me your life will be wonderful, leave me only with thoughts of your smile, your laughter, and I shall be at peace._

_Yours, in this world and all the others,_

_Your soulmate_

Dean folds the letter with shaky hands, cursing at the tears that have dripped down on the paper and made his words blurry.

He knew this day would come — they both did — but it doesn’t make it any easier. He does not dare write the name of his love on the paper, in fear of who might find it, and so simply pours some wax from his candle and seals it with the emblem he’s made himself, in secret, for this purpose alone — a bee. His love adores bees, he has told Dean about them in many of his letters. His family owns beehives in their backyard, and when they met it was one of the first thing Dean learned about his soulmate.

He leans out of the window and whistles, and while he waits for the pigeon they share for this purpose alone — his name is Charles — he sits down and opens the bottom right drawer of his wardrobe. He lifts the false bottom to reveal hundreds of letters carefully folded and stocked underneath. They’re all covered in his soulmate's beautiful handwriting. Some contained dried flowers or herbs, a very small rock or seashell, a strip of fabric or a pine cone — all now stored in a small box hidden under Dean’s bed. Pieces of his soulmates life, things he had touched, things he’d picked with care knowing Dean would receive them, hold them, kiss them, as if he could touch his soulmate through them.

Every night Dean sits here and picks a letter, unfolds it, and reads it. Never the same one, usually in the order he’s received them. He’s careful when he handles them, and never allows himself to open more than one, by fear of the words slowly fading from the pages from being handled too much.

It’s already started to happen to the very, very few portraits Dean has of his love — already a few years old and done by his sister Anna. How often he has traced the shape of his lips with his fingers, the dark ark of his brow, stared at those charcoal eyes and wondered if they were still as blue as they used to be.

Dean will never forget the boy he only met once, on that beach, all those years ago — dark tousled hair, wide blue eyes, and sun-tanned skin. He will never forget his smile, the way he threw his head back when he laughed, or the soulmate mark that bloomed and coloured on his arm when they touched.

Dean looks down at his own arm now. It’s small, but still there — the dark blue night sky, of which every freckle on his skin is a star. Sometimes beautiful lines stretch between those marks to create pictures, joyful or scary, depending on his soulmates’ mood. Other times, the colours and stars are obscured by dark clouds. For the three first years after their meeting, his mark was faded, grey, dull.  

Until a pigeon showed up at Dean’s window, cooing softly. Its eyes were blue, its feathers white and grey. On his back was tied a small roll of cloth. Dean carefully unrolled it and something heavy fell in his hand — a necklace, with his family sigil, that he had hastily taken off and pressed in the other boys palm right before they parted. He’d closed his soulmate’s fingers around it, told him that if they were ever to meet again, this would remind them of who they truly were — soulmates. Now and forever.

And there it was again, three years later, in his own hands. Dean had looked for his soulmate everywhere he went, and had almost lost hope of ever hearing from him again, until then. This wasn’t him, but it was something — it was proof that Dean wasn’t alone. That his love was out there, thinking about him, wishing for him.

His mark bloomed all over again.

The letter was simple but Dean could only hear it in his soulmate’s voice, that had already been low for his age.

_Dear soulmate, if this messages reaches you, know that I think about you every single day. The mark on my arm has etiolated, the leaves brown and the branches thin and frail. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t looked for you, and this is my last hope. Please send me back a word, any word, if by miracle you receive this._

_Yours, now and forever,_

_Your soulmate_

Then had begun their correspondence. Every week, Dean would wait for Charles to perch on his windowsill with a letter attached to his back. He’d feed the bird and sit down to eagerly read it, leaving the animal a night to recover before sending him back with a response. What started shy and tentative became long missives full of promises, secrets, and dreams. They’d never mention their names, or where they were from, in the fear of the letters being discovered.

They never mentioned hope, either.

Because soulmate or no soulmate, Dean has a destiny. He’s the heir to the Winchester estate, to a small fortune and ample lands, to political influence over the court and the King. He has huge responsibilities awaiting him on his twenty first birthday. He’s pretty sure his soulmate is in a similar situation.

And it’s not like they can sneak out to meet in the middle of the night. Dean can’t be sure, but he suspects that his soulmate doesn’t even live in the same kingdom. It takes several days for Charles to fly between them, and the beach they had once met at was on the edges of land. The other boy had smelled like the sea, like salt and sunshine and waves, like rain and storms and lightning.

They’d never had hope, but they had dreams. Their letters were full of _what if_ ’s, of the things they wished they could say, do, if they were ever to see each other again. It had grown and evolved into more mature ideas as they’d grown older, from adolescents to young adults. Dean hadn’t kissed him then, only eleven years old, still a child, but in the past ten years there wasn’t a day he hadn’t thought about it.

And maybe now he realizes that he did, somehow, have hope.

But that’s over now.

Dean’s wedding is in a couple of weeks, and then he’ll take over the estate. And he will never, ever see his love again.

 

He receives a response the morning of the ceremony. He was afraid, so afraid, that it wouldn’t arrive in time, and he almost cries in relief when he wakes up to find Charles taking a nap on his windowsill. He’s a little miffed that the pigeon didn’t wake him, but his heart beats loud as he wonders how his soulmate will react to the news of his engagement — even though he was warned that it would happen a long time ago.

He didn’t expect this, though.

_My darling love,_

_I wish I could tell you that I am, indeed, filled with joy and delighted with life. That despite your absence I have managed to find love and a purpose, that I will spend the rest of my life tending to my garden and my beehives, peaceful and content._

_Alas, I cannot. Not only am I tortured by the thought of you and this unknown spouse, by the fear of who you will be bonded to, and whether or not they will be the kind, loving, generous, and tender partner you deserve — but I myself have learned similar news just this morning._

_I have also been promised in marriage, to a spouse I not know of. My parents refuse to tell me about them, and I fear the worst — as the youngest sibling of a large family, I’m afraid of being no more than a gift of tender youth to an old, rich, powerful aristocrat. I know my parents are hoping to strengthen economic bonds with a wealthy family of a neighboured kingdom, and I can only fear the worst for my fate. I shall be brought to them very soon, as if I am no more than a bale of hay thrown in front of a horse._

_I will have to leave my bees, my garden, my home, and travel many miles to be given to this stranger and live the remainder of my life on their estate; yet my only true sorrow is to lose you, my love. I do not know if Charles will be able to find me again once I leave here, but if he does, I will have to send him away or else my spouse might suspect your existence._

_The only solace I’ve found was in your words, to know that even in my darkest times, I shall never be alone — that when I think of you, even as I am about to give my life to someone else, you are out in the world, somewhere, thinking of me. And that will have to be enough, my love, my honey, my dearest. That is enough._

_In this world we might part, but in another, I know, we will find each other again._

_Yours, now and forever,_

_Your soulmate_

Dean folds the letter before his tears can tarnish the precious handwriting. He kisses it, once, before placing it in the secret drawer and getting ready for the day.

His wedding day.

∞

_11 years ago_

Dean takes a deep breath of the salty, marine wind blowing over the ocean. It’s the first time he’s ever left the county, or went any further than the little village adjacent to the Winchester estate. He’s begged his parents many times to let him come when they visit the capital and the court, but they’ve never allowed it. His life is too precious, they say. He could catch an illness, or come face to face with many dangerous people — beggars, murderers, kidnappers. The Winchesters are a big name in the kingdom and their heir must be protected.

Thankfully a few years ago came a second child, another boy, and their parents have decided to finally take them on their first family vacation. They’ve travelled all the way to the edge of land, where the population is sparse, their name is unknown, and their sons would be safe. They’ve left their private guards behind many miles ago, and Dean breathes for what feels like the first time in his life.

He looks to his right, where both of his parents are laying down under a sunshade, and his little brother plays in the sand, building a castle with an wooden bucket and his bare hands. He looks to his left, where the beach unfurls endlessly, the air blurring from the heat of the sun.

He wonders what would happen if he took a few steps away. He looks back, and no one is looking at him — both his parents have fallen asleep and Sam is too engrossed in his task. Dean would be wary of leaving him, if they were anywhere else, but they’re completely alone and Sam is safe with both his parents by his side.

So Dean keeps walking.

He’s not sure what pulls at him, but it’s something — curiosity, a desire of liberty, of being truly alone for the first time in his life. Maybe it’s that, maybe it’s something else, but he walks until he cannot see his family anymore, hidden behind the many twists and curves of the coastline.

He keeps going, his bare feet digging into the sand, the wind soft and refreshing against his skin. The waves hit shore in an endless cycle, and Dean lets the water run over his feet and ankles, deliciously cold. He walks without thinking of having to go all the way back. The sun is high, birds are chirping, flying overhead and plunging into the storming waves, and Dean admires their fearlessness, to let themselves fall into the dangerous waters over and over again.

He walks until he sees movement ahead, and then stops, his heart hammering against his ribs.

He’s not alone anymore. There’s a boy, walking towards him, the imprint of his steps in the sand reaching far behind him. He stops too, when he sees Dean, and then he waves. Dean can’t see much about him from this distance — only his clothes, white pants and a loose blue shirt, a dark mop of hair. A blinding smile.

Dean smiles back and his feet start moving on their own, carrying him closer to the stranger.

His skin is tanned, his limbs lanky, adolescence just about to hit — he looks around ten or eleven, the same as Dean. His eyes are bluer than the sea.

“Hi,” Dean says, and they stop, a few feet from each other. Water licks at their feet, retreats, and reaches for them again.

“Hello.”

The boy examines Dean curiously, calmly. Their eyes meet, they both blush a little bit. Dean wants to say something, wants to reach out. Wants to ask what his name is, where he’s from, and if he feels it too — this pull, this energy between them. What pushed Dean to walk all this way, looking for something he couldn’t understand.

The boy reaches out between them and stops, his fingers a few inches from Dean’s arm.

“Can I touch your freckles?”

Dean’s cheeks, already heated by the sun, turn a shade darker. He’s never liked the hundreds of dots adorning his skin, nor does he know where they come from. His mother has a few on her nose in the summer, but nothing close to the quantity that covers Dean’s body. Sometimes he feels dirty and tries to rub them off in the bath, but only ends up with red and irritated skin, and feels like he can count even more the next morning.

The thought of that boy touching them should feel scary, and shameful, but it’s not.

“Okay.”

But instead of touching his arm, the boy’s hand reaches up, his fingertips grazing Dean’s cheek. They gasp. They’ve both felt it, Dean knows when he looks back to his new friend’s widened eyes.

A tingling, where their skins are meeting. Dean reaches out and wraps his hand around the other boys’ wrist. They both watch as a bright light flares between them, and then —

Where the other boy’s skin was bare before, colour etches itself into his skin. Green. Just a thin line first, and then leaves start sprouting from the new stem. They curl around his forearms, growing and spreading. It’s a plant — a plant with bright green leaves grows and blooms along his arm, disappearing under the hem of his sleeve.

“Oh,” the boy murmurs. Dean looks up to find him staring at Dean’s hand, still around his wrist and — oh.

A dark blue shade has wrapped itself around Dean’s forearm. His freckles have gone from brown to bright and shining, like a thousand stars into the night sky. Dean lets go of the boy’s wrist just as he lowers his other hand. Their fingers meet, tentative, and weave between each other.

Their soul marks grow, grow, and grow, until both their arms are covered in colourful hues, all the blue shades of the sky for Dean, and lush green leaves and elegant stems for the boy who he realizes now, is his other half.

They stare at each other, amazed. There’s so much Dean wants to say, to ask, but he feels an itch in his throat, so he pulls the boy into a tight hug instead. His heart feels as full and as bright as the sun, and he wants to laugh and cry at the same time. He doesn’t even know this boy’s name, where he comes from, if they even speak the same language — but he knows, deep inside, that he’s just found something rare, precious, and unique.

His soulmate. He has a soulmate, and he found him.

Dean tears up as he holds the other boy even closer. His face presses into the soft skin of his neck, he smells like the sea, like sunshine and freedom and summer breeze. The boy hugs Dean back just as fiercely, his fingers dig into his shoulders and he lets out a sob against his chest.

They stand like that for a really long time, just slowly swaying, tightly hugging, as the water envelops their feet, then their ankles, moving slowly up with each wave. Finally they have to pull away, when the water reaches their knees and soaks their pants. Dean can see his soulmate wiping his cheeks when they move apart, his eyes red and bluer than the sea and the sky combined. Dean’s never seen such a gorgeous, vivid color — except on his arm. Right now. He shakes his head, unable to stop smiling, and finds his expression mirrored in the other boy’s.

They walk up the beach, hand in hand, and collapse down on the sand. They stare at each other.

“We’re soulmates,” the other boy says. His voice is low for their age, and it might be the most beautiful sound Dean’s ever heard. It makes his heart puff up in his chest.

“Yeah. I didn’t — I didn’t think I’d ever meet you.”

“Me neither.”

They both laugh a little bit and Dean scoots even closer. The other boy brings their intertwined hands up and lays them over his heart. Dean can feel it beating, as fast and hard as his own.

He lays his head on the boy’s shoulder. The sand under them is warm, the long grass behind them shuffles in the wind. For the first time in his life, Dean feels perfectly content to just exist.

“Tell me something about yourself,” he asks.

“I love bees,” the boys says, and he smiles against the top of Dean’s head. “And I love honey the most.”

“I like that. I love honey too. S’my favourite sweet.”

His soulmate’s fingers untangle from his just to run along his arm, brushing over and over the colours twirling on his skin. Colourful lines connect between the dots and a bee appears, flying amongst the stars.

On the other boy’s arm, little bees are buzzing around the leaves and stem of what is slowly growing into a tree.

“Your turn.”

Dean thinks of all the things he wants his soulmate to know about him. That he’s rich, that he’s an heir who will one day hold responsibility for the political and economical system of a whole county, that he’ll have thousands and thousands of lives depending on his choices and rulings... That his favourite food is pie, be it meat or fruit, that he wishes he could spend his days reading about stories and heroes and maybe even write them.

But instead he decides to begin with the most important.

“I have a little brother. My parents are always so busy, so I’m kind of the one raising him. I just started teaching him how to read. I like... books, and stuff, y’know, been reading him stories before bed every night, and— sorry. I’m rambling.” He hides his blush in the other boy’s neck. His skin is warm, and he smells so good.

“I like hearing you speak. Your voice is very pleasant.”

“Yours too.”

“I hope I can meet him one day.”

“Do you know any soulmates?” Dean asks instead of dwelling on that answer — he doesn’t want to think about why this might forever remain a hope. He just wants to be here, now.

“One of my sibling met theirs, but in my family, we don’t — we can’t...”

“Mine either.” Dean closes his eyes for an instant, reminded of the harsh reality —  in his family, no one marries for love. He holds on to the other boy tighter and inhales his already familiar scent. “But there are these two women in the village—” Dean smiles, thinking about Jody and Donna, the village’s peacekeepers. “They’re soulmates and they live together. And their marks are beautiful. One of them has those yellow flowers all over her arms... the other has darker marks. They compliment each other.”

Dean thinks about the way he feels whenever he sees them — warmed from the inside, like their love and the bond they share heals those around them. He understands now, because holding his soulmate close makes him feel like he’s the sun, radiating heat and light and life all around him.

“Are you here long?” the boy asks. He speaks into Dean’s hair.

“No. Just a few days. You?”

“We leave tonight.”

Dean feels cold seeping through the warmth, despite the other boy’s body heat. Just the thought of having to separate from him is physically painful, an ache in his chest. But he knows he will have to. He doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t want to think it, but his soulmate pulls back a little and Dean instinctively holds him tighter. But he moves just enough to know his forehead against Dean’s, and smiles sweetly at him.

“We will find each other again. I promise you—”

He pauses, frowns, and then smiles again.

“I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Dean.”

“Dean. That’s a beautiful name. I’m Castiel.”

Dean doesn’t have time to tell him that his name is the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. Voices are calling, distressed, for Dean, and he scrambles to his feet.

“Dean you _cannot_ speak my name—”

“I know. You can’t either.”

It physically hurts to pull his hand away from his soulmate, so he does the only thing he can think of — he grabs the necklace his brother had given him as a present and puts it in his soulmate’s hands. He looks into his beautiful eyes one last time, and then he runs.

∞

There’s a soft knock on his door and Dean looks up to find Sam standing in the doorframe. His baby brother, now a tall teenager with floppy hair and kind features, is looking at him with a small smile.

“Hey,” Dean manages. His throat is blocked up, his fingers are shaking around the buttons of his ceremonial robes.

Sam walks in and bats his hand away, doing the buttoning himself.

“How are you feeling?”

“How do you think I’m feeling?”

Dean immediately regrets snapping at Sam, but he can’t help it. Sorrow has dug its claws deep in his chest, and he can barely breathe. In a few hours, he will be bound for life to someone who isn’t his soulmate. The longing and heartbreak he has felt for ten years were nothing compared to what the rest of his life will be.

“I’m sorry, Dean. I’m sorry you’ll never see him again.”

Dean closes his eyes to keep the tears from pouring out. Sam is the only one who knows, the only one Dean has told. His parents know, kind of — of course everyone noticed the mark on his arm that keeps changing colours and shape depending on his soulmate’s mood. But to everyone except Sam, Dean lied. He told his parents that he didn’t notice when his mark appeared. That he doesn’t know who triggered it.

There’s a reason he can’t risk speaking his soulmate’s name.

Dean knows that his parents are good, kind people. But finding a spouse for someone who’s already bonded with their soulmate is a near impossible task. Everyone is aware of the power that soulmates bond hold over a person. Everyone has heard stories of great men and women who sacrificed everything to find their love. Kingdoms have fallen because kings and queens broke marriages and alliances, wars were started over soul marks and love that wasn’t supposed to be.

Innocents were killed just for being soulmates of important people, slaughtered because their existence threatened alliances and treaties.

Not only that, but marrying an offspring to someone who’s heart and soul belongs to someone else is a risk most families refuse to take. Especially when the marriage is for a political or economical alliance. The only reason Dean’s parents were able to find him a respectable spouse is because they believe he doesn’t know, or care, about who his soulmate is. And they’ve been lucky enough to find someone who had also been compromised. Someone who has also met their soulmate.

Dean’s not sure if it’s a good thing or not.

“You could run, you know. Find him. For real. Charles could guide you.”

“I can’t just leave, Sammy. We’ve always known that — and anyway, he — he’s getting married too. Maybe it already happened. He was never really mine.”

Dean doesn’t need to look at Sam to know the look of pity he’s being given. Sometimes he envies his brother, for having never met his soulmate. Sam can still hope of falling in love with his future spouse — maybe he already has, he seems to be getting along quite well with Amelia, an old family friend to whom he’s been promised since they were both children.

But Dean’s heart can never belong to anyone else.

 

He feels nothing but dread as he enters the ceremony hall, and has he stands at the altar in front of Jody — she will be performing the ceremony. He’s been blinded, as will his spouse, with a veil over his face.

The room is filled with people, mostly friends of his family and villagers he’s known his whole life. There are a few new faces, though, that Dean noticed before his mother pulled the veil down over his face. Probably members of his future spouse’s family.

His future spouse. As always when he thinks of them, and more so with every day the wedding got closer, Dean feels like a block of ice has been dropped into his stomach. It churns and freezes his insides. His heart is heavy in his chest and it hurts every time it beats low against his ribs. He wants to run, he wants to run so badly, but he can’t, so he does the only thing that ever manages to calm him down -- he thinks about his love.

He closes his eyes and thinks of that day on the beach. He replays every moment, up until the very last touch they shared. It was so long ago. Since then, Dean’s only gotten to know his soulmate from his letters and the small gift they contained. He knows he’s smart, thoughtful, kind, generous, passionate. He knows he’s funny, too, and a little bit mischievous. And that sometimes, he can write about love and desire and… lust, and make Dean ache in the best of ways. Often, Dean thinks that hadn’t they been soulmates, had they met any other way, he would’ve fallen in love with him anyway.

He wonders what he looks like now. Ten years can change so many things. In the last portrait Dean received, three years ago, his soulmate was already almost unrecognizable. His shoulders were broader, his jaw too, and he had lost the tender features of childhood that still lingered when they had met. Dean had stared at that portrait for hours, thinking that he’d never seen such a beautiful man.

It hurts in a million ways to think about him, but it’s the only thing Dean has left to hold on to. His voice must be lower now, huskier. His hands, calloused and rough from working in his garden every day. His eyes — his eyes are the same, Dean knows, as their color is forever inked into his skin. He thinks about his lips, stretching into a smile. He almost smiles too. He may spend the rest of his life hollow and hopeless, but at least he knows, he will always know, that he’s loved.

He’s loved.

The tension in his chest loosens, just a little bit, just enough to breathe. He wants to touch his mark, run his fingers over it, even though it’s been grey and dull for weeks now. He knows why, and he knows that the twin mark, on his beloved’s arm, must be the same. He still wishes he could touch his right now, but he can’t. He’s wearing long gloves under his sleeve. A tradition for arranged marriages.

The door hinges creak and Dean forces himself to open his eyes. All he can see is the red cloth over his face. But he can hear — the chatter in the hall has died down, and the clear sound of footsteps walking up the aisle resonates against the stone walls.

There’s a sense of impending _something_ in Dean’s chest, something like doom, or something worse, Dean isn’t sure, but it grows with every step his future spouse takes towards him.

The air is too still, the silence stifling, no one daring to say a word. Dean’s hair raises on its end, goosebumps covering his body from head to toe. He can’t see his spouse, but he knows they’re standing in front of him now. He’s not sure how but he can feel their presence, their breathing. Dean braces himself one last time, and for a split second he thinks of running — but then Jody takes his hands, and joins them together with the hands of the person he’s about to marry, and he forgets to.

Through the gloves, the grip is firm. Steadying. He’s holding a stranger’s hands, yet Dean feels a lot calmer than he did a minute ago.

He barely hears what Jody is saying — things about undying bonds and lifelong promises — until she asks him to repeat her words.

“I, Dean Michael Winchester…”

Dean feels fingers tightening their grip around his, like an involuntary spasm. He’s not sure how but he can hear his future spouse’s breathing accelerate, and he realizes he’s not the only one who’s scared witless right now. Somehow that makes him feel a little braver.

“I, Dean Winchester,” Dean repeats, his voice coming out shaky, uncertain.

“Take thee, Castiel James Milton…”

Dean’s heart stops in his chest. His mouth runs dry. His ears are ringing. He must have misheard — he’s only heard that name once, ten years ago, and he never thought he’d hear it again.

“Take thee, Castiel James Milton,” Jody repeats, a little louder.

“Take thee,” Dean breathes in, out, slowly. “ _Castiel_... James Milton.”

He waits to be corrected. Waits to be told he’s mispronounced it. All he feels is his future spouse holding on impossibly tighter to his hands. Dean feels a buzzing under his skin, as if a thousand bees have elected residence in his veins. The feeling he’s had ever since the door opened, that something terrifying is about to happen, intensifies.

No one else seems to notice, though, and Jody continues, undisturbed.

“To be my lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health…”

“To be my…” Fuck, Dean’s voice will not stop trembling. “Lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health…”

“Through war days and peaceful times, under this sky or any other, and to be yours long after death does us part.”

Dean repeats, dutifully, his voice finally steadying out.

And then it’s _his_ turn. A voice, low and warm, and somehow incredibly familiar, rises in the hall, repeating Jody’s words.

“I, Castiel James Milton, take thee, Dean Michael Winchester…”

Tears well up in Dean’s eyes. He’s heard that voice before, he’s heard _his name_ in that voice before. It wasn’t the same back then, it was a child’s voice, and now— his heart is beating so hard, so fast, that he can hardly hear anything else. It cannot be. It’s impossible, this is his mind playing tricks on him. This is ten years of deeply buried desires surfacing back—

He struggles to stay focused, to untangle reality from his dreams, but all he can see is red, and all he can hear is him.

“To be my… lawfully wedded husband, in sickness and in health, trough war days and peaceful times, under this sky or any other, and to be yours long after death does us part.”

“And now with these rings, your promises must be sealed.”

Dean breathes, finally, as their hands are separated. His mind is spinning, dizzied, and he tries to gather his thoughts, keep them from spinning out of control.

It’s completely possible that there is more than one person on this Earth named Castiel. That the man in front of him is one of them, and that his voice is familiar just because Dean wants it to be. He cannot afford to hope, he cannot afford to lose himself to this — the pain that will crush him when he reveals his spouse’s face, when he realizes he let himself loose his mind over nothing — it would kill him for good. No, hope is not allowed. Finally, his heartbeat becomes regular again. He takes off his gloves, has to pull hard to slip the fabric off of his sweaty hands.

A cold ring is pressed into his palm and then Jody guides his hands once more, until he holds onto bare skin.

A rush of light and a million spark burst under Dean’s skin, staring from where the tip of his fingers press into the stranger’s skin and twirling around his palm, his wrist, his arm. He can’t see but he can _feel_ , colors blooming under his skin, lines stretching between stars. Blue. He can _feel_ blue wrapping around his arm, like it did ten years ago.

His fingers hurt from Castiel’s grip, he can feel the tremor under both their skins, and his knees almost buckle under the weight of the truth he can no longer ignore.

He is holding his soulmate’s hands. There is no denying it, no ignoring it. He doesn’t know how it happened, if it’s a miracle or a dream, but there is no fighting this — all he can do is abandon himself to it. He grips Castiel’s fingers tightly, then the ring, relief replaced with urgency. He must seal this marriage before anyone notices.

He slides it onto Castiel’s finger, just as he feels him do the same with his other hand. Promises are sealed, and Dean’s heart beats with hope renewed.

“I now pronounce you officially wedded in the eyes of the court, the law, and the Gods,” Jody declares.

The veils are lifted, and fear grips Dean one last time.

The face before him is of a stranger, yet Dean would recognize him anywhere, any time. Eyes bluer than the sky. Lips stretched into a hopeful smile. Dean is lost then, lost in the admiration of his beloved, standing before him, changed by the years and yet eternally beautiful. He’s not quite as Dean imagined, in fact he’s so much more; taller, broader, warmer, more breathtaking than Dean could have ever pictured. In that instant, he wants nothing more than to bring those hands to his lips and kiss them, to fall to his knees and worship the ground of whatever God brought Castiel back to him.

He wants to stand here forever and let himself drown in his eyes, he wants to bring him close, wants to bury his face against his beloved’s skin and lose himself in his scent. He wants — he wants so much, but the ceremonial hall is once again buzzing with sound, with chairs rattling the ground, with applauses and voices.

Their families surround them, ushering them down the altar. Their hands are pried apart, cold replacing the space between Dean’s fingers where warmth used to be. Dean finds himself hugged by his mother, his father, his brother. It’s a whirlwind of questions and congratulations, of claps on his back and tight hugs from those he loves.

His eyes frantically look for Castiel, afraid that if he blinks, even once, he might reopen his eyes to find him gone. Replaced by a complete stranger, dream shifting back to reality.

But when he looks above his uncle Bobby’s shoulder, he finds those blue eyes meeting his once again. The same hopeful, uncertain smile, the same questions in Castiel’s gaze. The same longing that Dean feels pulling at his chest painted on his features, like a string stretching in the invisible space between them.

He loses sight of him as his mother drags him out of the room, down a hallway and finally into a changing room, Sam on their tail.

“How are you?” Sam asks as soon as the door closes behind them. He anxiously examines Dean from head to toe.

“I’m— I’m fine, I’m okay,” Dean manages to say. He hides his hand in his long sleeve, unsure whether or not his soul mark has reached it. He can’t risk them noticing it before he can speak to Castiel, before he can ask him _how_ , before he can — fuck. Kiss him, maybe, hold him, feel him, be certain that this is real.

“He’s pretty cute, right?” His mother tries, cupping Dean’s face in her palms. Her eyes are bright and happy, relieved. She never wanted unhappiness for him, but Dean knows that she feared, like the rest of his family, that he’d put up a fight or try to run away. “ _And_ he’s your age, and he has a soulmark, but his parents _promised_ us that he has no idea who it is, and that he won’t be looking for them. This is the best we could’ve hoped for, Dean.”

“Yeah. It is.” Dean clears his throat, avoids her gaze. “Thanks, mom.”

Mary smiles, and then looks at Sam and nods towards the door.

“Alright, sweetie. We’ll let you get changed. Meet us outside when you’re ready.”

When the door closes behind them, Dean slumps against it, finally breathing again. He can still feel it. In his heart, in his mind, bees buzzing under his skin.

As fast as he can without ripping the fabric, Dean sheds his heavy ceremonial robes, cursing at all the layers. Finally he’s down to his undergarments and he quickly rolls up his sleeve.

And falls to his knees.

Where his mark was dull and grey, an eternal cloudy sky, his skin is now an explosion of colours. Blue, blue of course, the first and the most vibrant of them all. But through the stars are smears of pink, violet, green, as bright and beautiful as an aurora borealis. Both his arm and forearm are covered now, and the colors merge and expand right in front of his eyes.

His vision blurs, and he wipes the tears rolling down his cheeks. He rests his forehead against his knees and breathe, deeply, in and out. It’s true. It’s real, Cas is here — _here_ , somewhere, and he’s _happy_.

Dean needs to get back to him.

As quickly as he can manage he puts on the clothes waiting for him on the bed. They’re much lighter than his previous robe was, just one layer of dark green velvet, adorned at the seams with golden lace. The sleeves are long, covering his whole arm to the wrist, and thankfully his mark hasn’t reached his hand yet.

His mom exclaims with praises when he walks out and he brushes off the compliment as best he can. His eyes are already searching the empty hallway for Castiel, who must also have been brought around here to change.

He can see that Sam wants to ask questions — his brother knows him better than anyone else, and he must have noticed that something is going on, but he dares not ask questions in front of their mother. So they follow Mary without a word, back towards the ceremony hall where a banquet and a long night of celebration are awaiting the new husbands and their families.

They turn the corner and Dean’s mark throbs. Coming out of another bedroom and standing between an older woman and a girl with dark hair, Castiel smiles. His robes are similar to Dean’s, but the velvet is dark blue, matching his eyes, and the lace is silver. The open collar shows a hint of tan skin and of a muscular chest. The pants are tight around strong, thick thighs.

He’s stunning. Dean forgets to breathe, choked by the sight in front of him. Before he realizes it they’ve walked up to them and met, and Dean’s mom is already talking to the other two women enthusiastically, about how beautiful the ceremony was and how delicious the feast will be.

Cas takes the place besides Dean and they walk, silent, their sleeves brushing against each other. That simple touch, that hint of heat, is already overwhelming. Dean steals glances at him from the side. His profile is as remarkable as the rest of him — straight nose, strong chin, high cheekbones. His dark hair curls on his forehead and behind his ear, and Dean’s fingers itch with the need to touch, to feel. There’s a shadow of stubble on his cheeks, down his neck. Their eyes meet. Dean opens his mouth, closes it.

He has a thousand questions to ask, and a million more things he wants to say. But not here, not where they can be heard. Not with Sam walking right behind them and their mothers in front.

Silence it is.

 

The chairs in the ceremonial hall have been removed, replaced by round tables at which most guests are already sitting. A group of musicians, with their violins and cellos and flutes, have taken place on the altar. As soon as they walk in, Dean and Castiel are accosted by Dean’s father, and then guided around the room to meet each other’s families. Dean loses track of the number of people who congratulate them, of the hands they each shake, the polite words they exchange. The whole time they cannot speak a word to each other, and Dean’s impatience is growing.

Finally, it’s time to eat. At the royal table, they sit, flanked on both sides by their families. Dean is acutely aware of Castiel’s presence next to him, of the heat coming from his body, of the gaze, heavy and longing, examining him when he looks away. Under the table, their knees touch. Dean struggles to swallow his bite of lamb shank.

When their eyes meet, Dean finds warmth, and heat, and _want_ in his husband’s gaze. He keeps touching his ring, new, then his mark, familiar, reminding himself that this is real. That it happened. That this isn’t a hallucination. Every minute that goes by, Dean expects to wake up in his bed, sweaty and tangled in his sheets. He expects to look up and find his ceremonial robes waiting on the chair, to hear his mother knocking at his door and asking him if he’s ready.

His right hand rests on the table, next to his plate. Less than a quarter of an inch from Castiel’s. He keeps looking, keeps finding them closer than they were before. If he just shifted his pinky finger slightly…

Heat rolls under Dean’s skin, his mark glows with warmth. Castiel’s fingers rests against his own, more firmly. Slips under, hooks… The tension in Dean’s chest melts, replaced by warmth. He breathes.

“Seriously, Dean, are you okay?”

Dean jumps when his brother leans over to address him. He hides his hand under the table, underneath the long tablecloth. Next to him, Castiel’s cheeks are pink, and Dean wishes he could stare longer, reach out to touch him again — but Sam is watching him with rapt attention.

“Yeah, Sammy. I’m fine.”

Sam leans in further, close enough to whisper in Dean’s ear.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Sammy…” Dean’s throat blocks up. He wants to tell him. Needs to tell someone, needs to be told he isn’t crazy, that what he’s seeing — that it’s real. “I’m okay. I’m really — I’m better than okay. I’m good.”

He looks at Sam as he speaks, and finally his brother nods. His eyebrows are still curved with a note of uncertainty, but he lets it go.

Dean looks to his right again. Castiel seems engrossed in a talk with his mother. Dean moves his hand under the table, until he meets a warm thigh, and the folded fingers waiting there. He tries not to gasp at the contact. The rush of emotions buzzing under his skin still takes him by surprise, every time.

Slowly, his hand slides into Castiel’s. Fingers curl between Dean’s, holding tight. A thumb brushes, ever so softly, on top of his own. It’s so much easier to breathe when he’s touching him. It’s both intoxicating and incredibly healing.

He fights to keep his eyes on his plate. To not stare, endlessly, at the man next to him. At the curve of his neck as he leans towards his mother. At the delicate coloring of his cheeks, from the wine, or maybe from their touch. At his long fingers curving around his cup, at the way his mouth moves when he speaks, eats, drinks. Dean isn’t supposed to be enamoured with his new husband. Isn’t supposed to want him, or care for him. Not yet.

He puts his fork down, and slides his left hand under the tablecloth to join his right one. He finds Castiel’s wrist, against his own, slides his fingers under the hem of his sleeve. Touches the mark that is hidden there. He closes his eyes. He can feel it, can feel the mark moving under Castiel’s skin. It’s not as much a physical sensation — it doesn’t have texture, or shape, it’s more that he can feel the energy of it. He can feel the way it feeds on his own, and gives back to him tenfold. He strokes his fingers on the inside of Castiel’s arm. The skin there is soft, warm.

His husband’s cheeks turn a shade darker. His fingers tighten around Dean’s. It takes everything in Dean not to bring their linked fingers to his mouth. Not to kiss each of them, reverently.

He blushes at the memories of the words he laid out on paper through the years — so many desires, so many dreams. About all the places on Castiel’s body he wished he could kiss. Of all the ways he dreamed of bringing Castiel pleasure. The vivid descriptions Castiel wrote of the things he wanted to do to Dean kept him warmth through the coldest winters. There was a freedom in their exchanges back then, a boldness, thinking that they would never get the chance to make those dreams a reality.

But now — now they are surrounded by hundreds of people, but soon, too soon and yet not nearly soon enough, they will be alone.

Dean doesn’t have time to expand on that thought. He has to let go of his beloved’s hand as the tables are cleaned, and then pushed to the side to make space for dancing.

His only relief is that he and Castiel are not requested to lead. In fact, his husband is soon dragged away by his sisters, to share dances with them, and Dean stands back, leaning against a pillar, and watches them.

Castiel is all elegance and confidence on the dance floor. He smiles as his sisters goof and jump around him. He throws his head back and laughs as one of them makes him spin, arms extended. Dean’s heart clenches painfully in his chest. Before him stands a man, tall and strong and grown, but he can still see in him the boy he met on that beach all those years ago. The abandonment in his joy, the lightness in his eyes.

The same complicity, warmth, and tenderness as their gazes meet from across the room.

 

“Hey,” Sam smiles.

“Hey.”

Dean can help but grin back, and then goes back to admiring his new husband.

“So. Not that bad?”

“You have no idea, Sammy,” Dean chuckles. He can’t help himself. He’s fucking giddy.

“Really? Wow. I — That’s great, Dean. I didn’t think—”

“It’s him.”

Sam stops, frowns. He looks between Dean and the man currently twirling on the dance floor with abandon.

“What do you mean, _him_?”

“My soulmate, Sammy. Castiel is my soulmate.”

“How—”

“I don’t know. I don’t — I don’t know.” Dean realizes he’s laughing, even with tears in his eyes. That he’s so happy, he’s not sure how he can contain it much longer. “I don’t know, but… it’s true. It’s him.”

“Holy shit.”  
  
Sam grabs him and hugs him, tightly, and Dean returns his gigantic embrace.

“I’m so happy for you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

Someone stands in front of them and they pull back. Dean clears his throat and turns around to find his new husband looking at the both of them, a fond look on his face.

“Hello, Sam.”

“Hi, Castiel.”

Sam looks kind of starstruck — in all those years Dean has spent telling Sam about his soulmate, it never occurred to Dean that Sam might want to meet him, too.

“Would you mind if I borrowed my husband for a dance?”

 

Dean lets Castiel pull him to the dance floor, too enthralled by the feelings he gets whenever their skins touch to think of something to say. It’s like sunshine pouring directly into his veins, and he feels so light on his feet that he worries he’s going to float away. But Castiel grounds him, wrapping his free arm around Dean’s waist and pulling him close.

Dean has to turn his face away to avoid their noses bumping, and he follows, a little clumsily, Cas’ easy movements. The music is upbeat but not too fast, easy to move with, and Castiel doesn’t attempt any complicated steps, he just swings slowly, spinning a little bit, pulling Dean with him, and Dean goes.

They dance in silence at first, just basking in each other’s presence. Dean closes his eyes and lets the feelings of liquid light wash over him, starting from where their hands are clasped together and running through his whole body, oozing all the way to his bones.

He briefly meets Castiel’s eyes, but it’s just too much — who knew cold blue could shine so bright? — so he turns away again. Their cheeks brush, the barest touch. Dean’s heart is about to hammer out of his chest. Castiel’s hand is firm on the small of his back, his steps are sure, his breathing even, but Dean can feel his heart stutter against his own every now and then, when Dean’s breath tickles the hair curling behind his ear.

Dean aches in an entirely new way. He wants to bury his nose in Castiel’s neck, he wants to hold him so much closer, he wants to finally know what those lips feel like against his own. Want to know Castiel’s taste in the same way he has come to know his scent.

But everywhere Dean turns, eyes are on them.

So they dance.

 

They dance until the music slows, until they can only lightly sway, and Dean can’t resist speaking, the questions burning his lips and his heart.

“Is this — is this real?”

Cas moves his head slightly, his cheek rubbing against Dean’s when he speaks.

“Yes.”

He feels real — he has a presence, Dean can feel the warmth of his body, his energy, his weight in this reality. But it’s still hard to believe.

“What if it’s just a dream?”

“Then it means that I get to be with you, like this, every single night when I fall asleep. I’m good with that too.”

Dean could listen to him speak for hours on end, the low rumble of his voice the most soothing of sounds.

“How did — how is it possible? How—”

“How did this happen?” Cas murmurs, and he gently spins them around. His thumb rubs circles on the small of Dean’s back.

“Yeah,” Dean manages. “Did you—did you do this?”

Cas shakes his head slightly, his hair tickling Dean’s ear.

“No. Did you?”

Their gazes meet again. Dean always gets a little lost when he looks into Castiel’s eyes. It’s hard to focus on thoughts.

“No. I really thought—really thought I’d lost you.”

Cas’ eyes fill with tears, and Dean blinks to chase the wetness away from his own.

“Me too.”

Dean has to look away to repress the need to lean over and kiss his husband right here, right now. It would attract the wrong kind of attention. They keep  dancing as the night goes on, easily switching from animated line dances — which Dean always dreaded, but Castiel is so beautiful and free, throwing his head back and laughing at the silly steps, trotting and gambolling and spinning around each other — to slow, intimate ones. They just fit together, easily, and Dean finds himself grinning until his cheeks hurt. He constantly has to restrain his urge to press his forehead against Castiel and to lean into his shoulder, so firm under his palm.

He’s not sure how long he can keep doing this without losing his mind.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Dean slows them down a little, tightens his grip on Castiel’s hand. They’re slowly waltzing now, Castiel’s hand firm between Dean’s shoulder blades, their fingers intertwined.

“I—”

Dean lets his nose brush, ever so slightly, along the sharp angle of Castiel’s jaw. He feels his new husband shiver from head to toe.

“All those things we said, in those letters, about—”

A ball forms in Dean’s throat and he swallows around it. He’s not sure he wants to hear this. If Cas says—

“I know they were written with the thought that they’d never come true. And now, this, and I don’t expect — but I want you to know that I meant it. Every single word I wrote to you, I meant it.”

Cas’ lips brush on the shell of Dean’s ear as he speaks.

“I still do.”

Dean pulls him closer, chest to chest, until they can barely move without stepping on each other’s toes.

He keeps his eyes trained on the curl of hair behind Castiel’s ear.

“Me too,” he murmurs. “I want — fuck, I want it, I want you, more than — it’s just…”

He feels Castiel tense against him and he wrecks his brain to find the right words. His cheeks are burning against Cas’. He thinks of all the things he wrote over the years, the needs and desires he laid out on paper.

“I’m scared of disappointing you.”

Cas pulls away, just enough to catch his gaze. “Dean—”

“All that stuff I wrote about, I — I’ve never actually done any of it.”

Dean knows how it works, he’s read books and heard people talking, and he’s certainly well acquainted with his own body. But he’s never actually touched anyone else that way.

“I ain’t gonna be good at it.”

Cas smiles then, and the knot in Dean’s chest loosens at the sight.

“I have not done any of those things either. I’ve only dreamed about it, thinking of you”

“We’re gonna have to learn, I guess,” Dean smiles, and Cas laughs, and fuck. It’s the most beautiful thing Dean’s ever seen. And suddenly he isn’t scared at all, because Cas will be there with him every step of the way.

“And you could never disappoint me. This is — this is all I’ve ever wanted.”

“Yeah. Me too,” Dean murmurs, and he can’t resist bracing their foreheads together, just for an instant. He’s an inch away from kissing Cas’ mesmerizing lips. His husband’s cheeks are tainted the most delicious shade of pink, and he’s so fucking beautiful Dean isn’t sure how his legs are still supporting him.

He manages to turn away, and breathes the sweet perfume of Castiel’s hair instead, soft against his lips.

“Do you — um, do you think —” He takes a deep breath, steadying his voice. “How soon do you think we can get out of here?”

“Now. Now would be good,” Cas’ rumbling voice replies.

Dean lets out a breathless chuckle and holds him tighter. He knows his eyes are shining like never before, he knows his smile is brighter than the sun. He’s still not completely certain this isn’t a dream, so he waits impatiently for the song to end, so he can slip away with his new husband and make the best of this night in case he wakes up.

 

The party is still in full swing and Dean isn’t sure how they can escape unnoticed. They move, slowly, to the edge of the dance floor, hoping to melt into the crowd and slip away through a backdoor.

As the last note of the song floats through the air, they pull back from each other, grinning. Cas’ cheeks are pink, his eyes shining brighter than the moon. For the hundredth time tonight Dean feels knocked over by his beauty. Nothing, not a memory or a drawing or even Dean’s imagination could ever do him justice. And somehow, Dean can read the same sentiment reflected in Castiel’s eyes — a fiery admiration, an endless gratitude, and still a little bit of disbelief.

“Might I get a word with my son?”

Dean startles when his mother appears by his side, with Castiel’s mother right behind. Dean feels washed by a cold wave as they let go of each other’s hands.

“Of course,” Cas says, bowing his head. They exchange a glance, and while words were all they had for ten years, they don’t seem to need them anymore. Dean can read in his husband’s eyes everything he needs to know — he nods, and Castiel smiles, before they go their separate ways.

 

Mary grips Dean’s hand and drags him back to the dance floor and he follows, albeit a little reluctantly. He wouldn’t mind dancing with his mom on any other night; he loves every moment spent with her and she’s always been his favourite dance partner. But right now all he can think about is getting Castiel alone and out of these ridiculous ceremonial clothes and finally, _finally_ —

“You two seem to get along,” Mary smiles as they sway together.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean stutters. He doesn’t know how to speak without accidentally letting out that he’s over the fucking moon. “He’s — we’re —”

“He’s your soulmate, isn’t he?”

Dean gawks at his mother, but she doesn’t seem mad, or sad — she’s just smiling, with a look not dissimilar from his own — full of relief and tenderness.

“How did you—?”

“A mother always knows, Dean. I can feel it. Your happiness.”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a moment. He’s not sure he wants to hear more. What if Castiel’s family knows too? What if they decided that this is — that it’s not what they thought it would be, what if they think this was rigged, somehow, and decide to take Castiel away? Dean’s breath shallows at the thought, recoiling like he’s been hit.

“Dean, honey, look at me.”

Dean looks at his mom and realizes he’s been squeezing the blood of out her hand.

“This is a good thing. This is — it’s a miracle, Dean.”

“I know,” Dean breathes out, “but — isn’t it — what if they’re not happy about it, what if they change their minds and they take him away? What if—”

“Why would anyone do that?”

Dean realizes he doesn’t have a good answer to that. He’s just been so, so scared of losing Cas again, that he never stopped to think that this secret might not be a bad one after all.

“I don’t know, I just—”

Mary looks at him with sympathy.

“This is the best possible outcome, Dean. I think your father and the Miltons would agree.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, almost daring to be hopeful.

“Yes. And even if they didn’t, it’s too late. You and Castiel are bonded together by the rules of the land and the laws of the Gods. No one can take him away from you, not even Death.”

The wave of relief that crashes inside of Dean almost knocks him off his feet, and he leans into his mother, into her familiar, reassuring embrace.

“You have nothing to worry about.”

Dean hugs her fiercely, and quietly wipes his tears with his sleeve.

“I’m sure you and Castiel must be eager to make your exit,” Mary smiles, a little teasing.

“Yeah,” Dean blushes. “Kind of.”

“But we need to have the talk, first.”

“The talk?”

“The wedding night talk.”

“Oh, Gods, mom,” Dean groans, his cheeks flushing with heat. For a moment he thinks of abandoning his mom right then and there in the middle of the dance floor.

“I don’t want you or Castiel to get hurt in your eagerness to—”

“Please don’t—”

“Now, there are different ways for two men to share pleasure, however—”

Dean frantically looks for a way to escape this conversation. “I know how it works,” he mumbles hastily. “I don’t need the talk.”

“I’m sure you think you do, but your health is more important than your embarrassment right now, Dean Winchester.”

Dean bites his lips at his mother’s commanding tone — it’s the one she uses when things matter, and Dean knows better than to try to try a witty reply.

“Now, first of all, lube is the most important thing you’ll need. You cannot produce enough lubrication on your own for penetra—”

“Mom, _ew_ —”

“And it can be very painful without it. It’s also _very_ important to stretch, I know it might seem boring but you need to really take the time to use your fingers to open up before—”

“Please stop talking.”

Dean throws desperate glances around the room until he finally finds the blue eyes he was looking for. On the other side of the room, Castiel’s face is as red as a boiling beet. Dean realizes he must be receiving the exact same discourse from his own mother, and his own embarrassment only heightens at the thought.

“And it’s going to hurt, at first, but—”

Dean tries to tune her out, putting his hands on his ears and singing under his breath. The idea of doing those things he’s so desperately wanted for years, tonight, with Cas — it’s overwhelming, exhilarating, and confusing in a way that makes Dean want to be as far as possible from any member of his family.

Finally, she seems to be done, and so is the song, so Dean pointedly takes a step back and looks around for Castiel. He spots him a few feet away from the door, having apparently been able to escape his mother.

“Dean, one last thing—”

Mary gently grabs Dean’s arm.

“Being with your soulmate doesn’t mean that this is going to be easy. Love and marriage is something you have to work at, no matter the bond you have. Don’t take him for granted.”

Dean frowns. The thought of ever taking a moment with Castiel for granted, after all they’ve been through, makes no sense at all. There won’t be a day he will not be grateful to the universe for having brought Castiel back to him — and he knows just how incredibly lucky he is to get to have this. He’s not about to forget.

“Alright, go ahead,” Mary winks, gently pushing him off the dance floor. “Go find your husband. I’ll distract your father. I think he wanted to have the talk, too.”

Dean silently thanks his mom and finally manages to get away, taking Castiel’s hand just as they slip through the door.

 

Dean’s anxiety rises with each step they take towards their newly appointment quarters. His mind is only beginning to get a grasp on this new reality — the one where he’s actually married to his soulmate, to Castiel, for the rest of eternity — and despite the reassuring press of Castiel’s hand into his and the familiar way their fingers intertwine with each other, Dean feels his heart beating faster and faster as they make their way through the empty corridors.

“We have a greenhouse,” Dean blurts out.

He’s not sure why he chose that moment to say it, just that he’s been wanting to from the moment he realized who was standing in front of him at the altar. He remembers vividly the words of Castiel’s last letter — his sadness at the thought of leaving his home, his garden, and his beehives. Dean’s mother had always been fond of plants, and for the past ten years Dean has been helping care for the greenhouse, because it made him feel close to Castiel, somehow.

And now — now he wants him to know that there are things, here, for Castiel to love, besides Dean. That even when they thought there was no hope, Dean was still thinking of him, and of making his life a home for Castiel, may he never live in it.

“You do?” Cas smiles, and Dean can only glance at him quickly for fault of being completely blinded.

“Yeah. It’s really big, and it has all of your favourite plants.”

Cas’ hand squeezes Dean’s fingers and he halts, just for a moment.

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Dean can’t look at him and he keeps moving forward. They’ve almost reached their bedchamber and he needs to busy his brain so he doesn’t stumble into complete panic. His mother’s “talk” has done nothing but freak him out more. What if he hurts Cas? What if he does everything wrong and Castiel never wants to touch him again?

“Every plant you told me about in your letters, every seed or cutting you sent — I planted them. Took care of them. They’re all waiting for you, if you—”

There’s a sharp tug at their joined hands and Dean is forcefully spinned around, until he’s nose to nose with his new husband.

“I’m building an apiary, too,” Dean says, unable to stop talking, because Castiel’s lips are right there, an inch from his own, plump and pink and perfect and if he doesn’t keep talking he’s going to do something else, something he’s not sure he’s ready for. “It’s not finished so it doesn’t have any bees yet, I was thinking of asking you to send me a queen or something, I don’t know if you can send bees by carrier pigeon but I—”

“You did that for me?”

“Yeah. I… I mean. I never thought I’d get to actually show you. But it made me feel… I don’t know. Like there was a piece of you with me. A place I could go and… be with you. I know it’s dumb I just—”

“Dean. Stop talking so I can kiss you.”

“O-Okay, but I’m probably going to be bad at it, and—”

Dean’s words die in his throat when Castiel’s thumb brushes on his lower lip. His eyes are lit with a dark spark that takes Dean’s breath away. Their noses bump, a hot breath caresses his mouth.

Their first kiss is tentative, just a dry press of Cas’ lips. Dean closes his eyes anyway, feels like he’s free-falling ten thousand feet through the air. He’s pretty sure he’ll have bruises on his chest tomorrow where his heart keeps hammering against his ribs. He lets out a whimper and cups Castiel’s cheek, feeling too much at once — the scrap of stubble against his palm, the soft hair caressing the tip of his fingers, the warmth of Castiel’s entire body pressed against his own. And finally, the soft caress of perfect lips on his mouth.

It’s new, but nowhere as scary as Dean thought it would be. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know how to kiss, let alone do anything else — because he’s with _Cas_. And suddenly it’s so easy, sharing each other’s breath, tasting the sweetness of each other’s lips. Cas’ hands run up Dean’s chest, grip his shoulders, and the kiss deepens.

It’s more wet now, and Dean feels the subtle scrape of teeth against his lower lip, sending a deep shiver through his nerves. It’s a whirlwind of new sensations. He wants more, pulling Castiel closer, inhaling deeply, sea breeze and sunshine and _love_. Cas smells like love. The buzzing under Dean’s skin, that has been growing ever since Castiel walked up the aisle, reaches a new height; there are fireworks exploding inside of his chest, and light spilling from Castiel’s touch into his skin.

Only when Castiel makes small sound against his lips does Dean realize how hard he’s holding him, so hard that his fingers cramp and pain shoots up his arms. He loosens his grip and pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against Castiel’s.

Inside of Dean, beneath his ribs and low in his stomach, is a strong pull, a ferocious hunger, for more of Castiel’s touch, more of his kiss, more of it _all_ — but he keeps it at bay, long enough to look at him, and everything else falls away.

Cas is smiling, _beaming_ , and Dean gets lost in deep sea blue.

“I think we’re pretty good at this,” Cas murmurs, and Dean can’t resist kissing the smile on his lips.

“Yeah, we are.”

 

Dean didn’t think he could feel this calm, stepping into the bedroom, on his wedding night, with his new husband. But Castiel has managed to make him feel calm, almost settled. Of course there’s still the underlying current of energy under his skin, but he’s starting to understand that that’s never gonna go away as long as Cas is there — and he’s more than okay with it.

As for the yearning in his chest, in his stomach, well — maybe they can do something about that. Slowly.

They tour their new living quarters hand in hand. Castiel especially appreciates the tower corner, a small library with a fireplace, bookshelves, and a large window following the curve of the building. A padded bench runs along the wall under it, and plants hang above it, giving the space an ethereal feel. Dean is impressed with the bathroom, with a real porcelain sink and a bath big enough for two, that he cannot wait to try.

The bedroom is at least twice as big as Dean’s old one. The canopy bed is large enough for them to both sleep without ever touching each other, if that was something they wanted, and in the morning light will flood from the tall glass windows and spill onto the bed.

The bed. Dean can’t help staring at it like it’s a monster about to devour him. He has thought about Castiel in his bed every single night for ten years. First it was innocent — he’d think about them holding each other just like they had on the beach that day. He’d think about falling asleep listening to Castiel’s heartbeats, lulled to unconsciousness by the slow rumble of his voice.  As years passed, the dream changed. He thought about laying Castiel bare underneath him, and of all the ways he could pleasure him, cherish him, worship him.

It was easy to think about it then, when it was just fantasies. Hypothetical. Impossible. Now it’s—

“Cas, I’m scared.”

Dean isn’t sure if it’s the soulmate bond that makes him unable to lie and blurt out every thought going through his mind, but before he can ponder his embarrassment, Castiel lets out a relieved sigh.

“I am too. Terrified.”

They exchange a wide smile, both leaning into each other’s embrace. Emboldened, Dean lays a soft, chaste kiss on his husband’s mouth.

“Maybe we could — take it slow. If that’s okay.”

“I would like that,” Cas agrees. He wraps his arms around Dean’s shoulders, caresses his cheek with the tip of his fingers. “We are in no rush. Are we?”

“No. Not at all.”

It hits Dean all over again, that it happened. He married Cas today. He married _Cas_. This is it, for the rest of his life—

“Can you disrobe for me?”

Dean stares at Cas, who seems just as shocked as he is by the words that came out of his mouth.  
  
“I meant — I didn’t mean —”

The most adorable blush has spread on Cas’ cheeks. Dean chuckles.

“I thought we were taking it slow?” he teases, pulling at their intertwined hands to press a kiss on Cas’ fingers. The ring is cold against his lips.

“No, that’s not — I mean, I do want to see you—” Cas’ entire face looks like a ripe strawberry. He takes a deep breath. “I have been dying to see your mark again. Every day I wondered what it looked like, and all night I’ve been—”

Dean only lets go of Cas’ hand to undo the buttons of his ceremonial shirt. Cas’ eyes darken, following the path of his fingers.

“You too,” Dean says, with more bravado than he feels. “I want to see you.”

Cas nods and begins unbuttoning with shaky fingers. Dean gets impatient, fiddling with those ridiculous threads and buttons, so he ends up shucking his shirt over his head. When he looks back at Cas, he stops breathing.

Cas is bare from the waist up. And there is a _lot_ to take in — but all that Dean can see is colors.

An explosion of colors has taken over both of Cas’ arms and almost half of his torso. What used to be a frail vine snaking around Castiel’s arms is now a lush, jungle-like spread of leaves, stems, and flowers. All the shades of green in the world are battling on his skin, all the shape of leaves and plants and trees; and it’s only when Dean feels the warmth of Castiel’s bare body that he realizes they’ve embraced each other again

Arms around each other and skin against skin, Dean now sees just how much their marks compliment each other. Not only is the night sky blue of his own the perfect mirror to Castiel’s eyes, and the green lush of Castiel’s a reminder of Dean’s, but all the other colors adorning their skins are a perfect match; flowers for Castiel and brushstrokes of colors for Dean, imitating the aurora borealis that often lights up the sky during winter.

Together, their marks look like the Earth under the sky, and the leaves ruffle softly as Dean holds Castiel closer. Their soul marks almost seem to feel each other, melding into one another, bleeding into each other. Leaves and vines begin to tease the tip of Dean’s fingers, where they’re curled around Castiel’s arms, and blue starts to darken Castiel’s skin along the length of his arm.

Dean isn’t sure how long they stand there, just watching the colors move and bloom on each other’s skin. Must be a while, because his muscles are stiff when he blinks again. He meets Castiel’s eyes, wide with amazement, and then his mouth, for a gentle kiss.

Castiel’s arms tighten around his shoulder, fingers slip into his hair, pulling to deepen the kiss. His body is warm and firm against Dean’s, and he can feel the muscles rippling under Cas’ skin as he runs his palms up and down his husband’s back. Too taken by the sight of his mark, Dean barely registered everything else, but he’s now completely floored by how much Castiel has changed.

His shoulders are large, firm, his jaw rough, his hands strong. The translucent colors of his mark move over tan skin, adorned by little brown moles. Dean can’t help but trace the outlines of Castiel’s body with his palms; sharp angles, silk soft skin. Dean has wondered what Castiel looked like more times than he can count, but nothing he’s ever come up in his mind could come close to this.

According to the reverent look in Castiel’s eyes, as his fingers explore Dean in return, he’s thinking the same thing. They can’t read each other’s minds and never will, can’t hear each other’s thoughts, but are already naturally attuned to each other’s emotions, wants, and needs. Dean knows instinctively that Castiel wants to kiss each of his freckles, he can see it in his eyes. He leans over to kiss him again, and Cas makes a soft sound against his lips, melting into his arms.

Dean has spent years picturing what kissing Castiel would be like, but he never thought it would be like this. That Castiel’s mouth would light his entire body on fire, that the hesitant brush of his tongue would send his mind spinning out of control, that he’d fight to keep his knees from buckling just from his soulmate’s touch. Fingers begin their exploration again, Cas’ palm sliding down his chest, down his hips, slipping under his waistband.

Dean’s not so sure he wants to take it slow anymore.

His tongue slides, slow and filthy, against Castiel’s. Shivers run under his skin, Cas pulls harder into his hair. Emboldened, Dean lets his finger slide down the V of Cas’ hips, picking at the knot tying Cas’ pants together.

“Oh,” Cas murmurs, a little breathless. Dean bites harshly into his lips in response.

Dean can feel his own heart, beating hard against Castiel’s, can feel both of their hardness pushing between the layers of clothes.

“Cas,” he growls, tugging at Castiel’s waistband. “Want — need—”

Cas is so hard. Cas is so hard, for him. He presses the heel of his palm into the shape tenting Castiel’s pants and Cas’ hips jump forward, his nails drag into the skin of Dean’s shoulder.  
  
Dean pulls back, just to watch the way Cas’ eyes glaze over, the plush wetness of his mouth, pink like a rose in bloom.

There’s so much he needs, and he doesn’t know where to start. It’s overwhelming, to love this much, to hold in his hands the most precious thing on this Earth. He’s told Castiel that he loves him a thousand times over, has written all the words of love and endearment and cherishing that exist in the world. He’s dreamed of saying them aloud every single day for ten years, but now that he’s here, now that Cas is real and warm and _wanting_ in his arms, he doesn’t know where to start.

 _I love you_ just isn’t enough.

“Angel,” he murmurs instead, kissing every bit of Cas he can reach; lips, cheeks, nose, eyes. “My angel.” Cas’ neck is warm, and Dean can feel his husband’s throat vibrate against his lips when he lets out a soft groan. “Sweetheart.” Cas arches against him, cock twitching against Dean’s palm, and Dean needs to feel that, over and over again. “Sunshine.”

“Beloved,” Cas replies, out of breath.

He pulls back from Dean’s embrace, his hands frame Dean’s face. They’re noses bump, and Cas is smiling too much to allow for Dean to kiss him properly, but he can’t find himself to be mad about it.

He needs to say it anyway.

“I love you.”

Maybe there’s no need for anything more than that. Maybe it’s enough, because it’s all there is. Love.

Dean doesn’t need anything more than this.

He leans over, kisses a path along Castiel’s jaw, presses his mouth into the tender skin of his neck.

Cas says it back, of course, repeats it over and over, until their voices get lost, stifled between their lips.

And suddenly, Dean knows exactly what he wants. He slides down to his knees, hitting the hardwood floor.

“Dean…” His name falls from Castiel’s lips, not a request, not a question. A shuddering breath, an adoration.

Dean smiles, reassuringly, and then lowers his eyes. He undoes Castiel’s pants and pulls them down, pooling them at his feet.

He has dreamed of this, too.

His hands frame Castiel’s thick thighs. He buries his nose in Castiel’s hips, warm skin and sharp bone. He traces it with his tongue, very aware of the hard, throbbing length brushing against his cheek. Cas’ hands settle on his shoulders, gently stroking through his hair.

He nuzzles in the slightly softer flesh of Cas’ stomach, follows the brown trail of hair down, down, down. He moves towards the heat, where the skin burns under his lips, curly hair caressing his mouth like a kiss. Vines and leaves follow Dean’s touch, moving under his mouth, and he kisses them too. Where his lips touch, flowers button and bloom.

Castiel’s scent is different there, concentrated, headier. It sends Dean’s mind into a dizzy spin. His stomach is pulled tight with want, his cock hard and bobbing between his legs. He doesn’t allow himself more than a quick glance at Cas’ — thick, curved and scarlet at the tip, spilling a generous amount of clear liquid — before he wraps his lips around him. He doesn’t want to think about it, he just wants to taste, to know, finally.

It’s bittersweet — mostly bitter, Dean realizes, but maybe he’s just a little too in love to not find it sweet — and Castiel’s cockhead is smooth and warm under his lips. That’s what hits him the most, the softness of Castiel’s skin against his tongue. He’s hard, getting harder with each clumsy stroke of Dean’s lips, but it’s _soft_ , smooth, and Dean hums in delight.

He can hear Castiel make strangled noises, his fingers pulling a little too hard at the strands of Dean’s hair. But Dean is already addicted to this feeling, to how much he can _feel_ with his mouth — his husband’s desire, his pleasure, flesh throbbing and hardening into his mouth, spilling salty bitterness on his tongue. He lets out a frustrated whine when Cas forcefully slips out of his mouth, but he doesn’t have time to ask why before Castiel’s strong hands grab him, forcing him up to his feet.

Cas’ kiss is burning, bruising, filthy, and Dean feels him moan as he tastes himself on Dean’s tongue. Dean wants to ask what he did wrong, but Cas grabs the back of his thighs and hauls him up in his arms. Dean only has time to grab onto Castiel’s shoulder to avoid falling backwards, and then Castiel has marched them to the bed and unceremoniously dropping Dean onto it.

“Cas, what—”

His question is swallowed into Castiel’s mouth, and the shock realization that he’s on a bed — _their_ bed, their marital bed — with Castiel, naked, on top of him, hits him like a punch. It’s real. Cas is real, and he’s here.

“Cas,” Dean lets out, and he understands now — it’s not a demand, a plea, a request — it’s simply the wonderment of reality. “ _Castiel_ —”

All those years not daring to speak his name — now Dean can’t say it enough. It’s the most beautiful word he’s ever uttered, it’s what his mouth was made for, to speak that name.

“I didn’t want — it was gonna end, and I didn’t want it to end,” Cas murmurs, bracing his forehead against Dean’s. “It was too soon.”

“You were gonna—?”

Dean realizes, with a surge of pride, that with only a few touches he almost made Castiel fall apart. He might not be as terrible at this as he feared.

“It was too soon,” Cas murmurs. His arms are bracketed on each side of Dean’s face, holding his weight. His stomach rests against Dean’s, warm, and they breathe together. Dean can feel everything, the weight of Cas’ body, the slow caress of Cas’ fingers on temple. His cock, painfully hard, wetting the skin where it’s tucked against Dean’s hip.

“You should’ve. Wanted to taste you.”

“I didn’t want it to end so soon.”

“End?” Dean smiles, wrapping his arms securely around Castiel’s waist. As if he might leave, or be taken away. But no, Cas is here, firm and alive and breathing into his arms. “There ain’t no end to this, Cas.”

Cas kisses him instead of answering, and Dean’s more than okay with that. Then he moves Dean’s body, peppering a thousand kisses on his skin on the way.

Dean understands now, why Cas pulled him up so soon — the feeling is so overwhelming, velvet soft heat like Dean’s never known before — he soon grabs Cas’ arms and hauls him back up.

The next kiss tastes like both of them.

Dean will never, ever tire of the warm slide of Castiel’s tongue, of the hand behind his neck, or down the slope of his shoulder, moving to tease the sensitive skin of his thighs, the curve of his stomach.

Dean’s need for release his growing with every passing minute, but he knows what Cas meant. There will be a thousand moments just like these, yet Dean isn’t ready for this one to end just yet. He wants to stay right here, right now, forever.

He wants to get lost in Castiel’s eyes, tracing over and over the outline of his face, memorizing every detail of him. The creases in his lips, the arc of his brows, the curve of his cheeks, even the shape of his nostrils, is important information that Dean needs to memorize and file away.

He likes the way Cas’ body feels on top of him, heavy and warm, likes the way Cas’ flesh yields under his grip, he likes the way his hand fits around Cas’ neck, thumb on his throat, feeling the air move in and out of his lungs. He runs his fingers through Castiel’s hair over and over, to never forget how soft it feels, the way it curves behind his hair and on his forehead. He wants to lay here and spend the next hundred hours of his life just staring in Cas’ eyes, wants to feel their bodies breathing together, moving together, chasing pleasure together.

He never wants to forget the salty taste of Cas’ skin, the way it glistens in the candlelight, the fine sheen of sweat covering them both. He moans at the feeling on Cas’ flesh between his teeth, curving into his mouth. He’s slowly covering Cas’ neck in bruises, new marks uniting them, marking Castiel as his.

When they do finally stumble over the edge, it feels like everything is falling into place one last time. This pleasure is their own, something they could’ve never shared with anyone else. Colors explode on their skin, the bed is alight, for an instant, by the sudden brightness where their skins meet.

Pleasure seals their fate, their union, their place into the world.

 

Dean spent the whole night thinking he couldn’t be more in love, but he was wrong.

When they awake, bleary-eyed in the late morning sun, he’s already impossibly more in love than he’d been a few hours before, when bone-deep exhaustion had forced him to stop kissing every inch of his new husband’s body and let sleep finally overcome them.

He would’ve gladly stayed in bed and slept all day — or done a myriad of others things, the ideas certainly aren’t missing — but Castiel begs Dean to show him in the greenhouse and the gardens, and Dean quickly realizes he’ll never be able to say no to his husband and his adorable puppy eyes.

And if he thought he was in love before, it was nothing compared to the way Dean's heart explodes in a million pieces as he watches the smile that illuminates Castiel’s face as he enters the brightly lit greenhouse, where lush plants are growing and blooming. Some of them are ancient, dating from long before their first meeting, but some of them are new, younger, a few years old — and obviously cherished.

Cas recognizes every single one of them, remembers their name, the day he took them, sliding the cutting in his pocket when no one was looking. He remembers touching them for the last time as he sealed his letter, comforted by the thought that they would soon know Dean’s touch, too.

It really hits Dean in that moment — his mind struggling to accept the fact that this isn’t just one gigantic hallucination — that he has spent ten years preparing for a life without Cas. A life without his love, without his everything. It’s going to take him a while to catch up to the fact that he is, in fact, going to spend the rest of his life with his soulmate.

Bees, butterflies, and other creatures buzz around them, and Cas follows their movements with proud adoration. He kisses Dean a lot, too, when he can tear his eyes away from the lushness surrounding them. Dean guides him through the greenhouse and then the garden, never letting go of his hand, the cold press of Cas’ ring a much needed reminder.

Eventually, their sleepless night and exhaustion catches up to them so they settle in the grass, the afternoon sun warm on their skin. Dean rests his back against the bark of his favourite oak tree, and Cas in turn lays against Dean’s chest, head lolling on his shoulder. Beautiful blue eyes droop as he sets himself more comfortably into Dean’s arms.

Dean kisses his forehead, his temple, his nose. He closes his eyes and reopens them, to find that he’s still there, the grass soft under his legs, light dancing on his beloved as the wind shuffles the branches of the tree above them.

“Sleep, my sweetest love,” Dean murmurs, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr[ here ](https://casbeanwrites.tumblr.com/) or [ here ](https://casbean.tumblr.com/)
> 
> you can reblog this post [ here ](https://casbeanwrites.tumblr.com/post/185591457133/flo-congrats-on-your-followers-if-you-want)
> 
> thank you <3


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